


Explain Forgiveness to Me

by labelladonna99



Series: We were wrecks before we crashed into each other (Wall Verse) [1]
Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: #primatech, Episode: s04e17 The Wall, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 08:51:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11158431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labelladonna99/pseuds/labelladonna99
Summary: Peter and Sylar spent their first year behind the wall fighting. Now they're trying to move forward and figure some things out.





	Explain Forgiveness to Me

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Happy Family by Sundara Karma and I Am A Nightmare* by Brand New (*the scene in which this song is mentioned takes place circa 2010; the song did not exist at that time but this is all just for fun, right?)
> 
> Many thanks to FieryEclipse for her helpful comments and suggestions.

**Happy Family, Sundara Karma:**

 

_Left and right they're calling me back home and I've heard their cries I've felt it in my bones._ _Left and right, they choke me tight. I'm overworn and out of sight. I hear their cries, I've felt it in my bones._

Peter perched on the edge of a rooftop overlooking the deserted wasteland of a city, its buildings washed in the pale pink light of the morning sun. Utterly silent and still, the city’s preternatural quiet was no match for the voices on auto play inside Peter’s mind. They spoke to him over and over and over in an endless loop of mental torture.

Nathan. “ _Hey, Pete. Whatcha doin’?”_ His brother must have said those words to him thousands of times in that distinctive tenor voice of his. With no sounds in this empty world to capture Peter’s attention, the imaginary voice was all he could hear.

“ _Shh, shh, shh, it’s okay.”_ That's what Nathan would say if he were here. It's what he had always said when Peter was bleeding out emotionally. But Nathan would never say those words, nor any others, ever again. Peter rubbed a hand across his weary face and let out a long breath.

 _“I'm not leaving you, Peter,”_ Nathan had promised as he flew into the stratosphere cradling his brother in his arms.

But he did leave. “I miss you, Nathan.” Peter’s voice reverberated in the desolate nothingness, tired and forlorn.

Peter was learning that loss was like peeling an onion in reverse,  forming layer upon infinite layer of pain around a bitter core. He had always thought that people mourned for however long they needed to and then the pain subsided, as if the person they’d lost had never existed. How could he have thought that? It seemed so obvious now. Without realizing he had been doing it, he had planned a lifetime with his brother beside him, taking it for granted that Nathan would always be there. Now every birthday, every holiday, was just another reminder of the empty space where Nathan should have been. Nathan would never be the best man at Peter’s wedding. His brother would never be Godfather to his children.

Then there were the effects upon Peter’s psyche, his faith tarnished by the realization of what he would do, what he _had_ done, to get his brother back. Good and evil weren’t the rigid opposites Peter used to believe they were. Withstanding temptation was perhaps less a matter of righteousness and fortitude than simply not getting the right offer. Everyone had their poison and their price, it seemed.

Ma. “ _You were always my favorite. And I cannot lose you.”_

Lies. Always with the lies. She hadn't been too worried about his fate when she had allowed him to detonate over New York City. And if she couldn't lose him, then why didn’t she come for him now, when she knew perfectly well where he was? Did she see him in her dreams, trapped in this insane and lonely netherworld with only his brother’s killer for company? Did she know how alone and desperate he felt?

“ _If there are changes to be made I want to be there to help you.”_

“I want you to be there too, Ma. Help me, for once. I want to go home.” Peter whispered, feeling childish and not caring. He hadn't lived in the Petrelli mansion for years. Strange how when he was in trouble, it still felt like home, the place he wanted to run to even after the people who had lived there with him had each, in turn, betrayed him.

Claire. “ _You're totally my hero_.” That sweet little smile punctuating her words. Claire made him feel like the hero he wanted to be. He had been her protector, not the air-headed dreamer his parents, and sometimes Nathan, treated him as. He tried to dismiss those terrifying future timelines in which Claire had killed him or attempted to, preferring to remember her as his loving and trusting niece.

Noah. _“You saved my little girl. Maybe someday I can return the favor.”_  As Claire’s adoptive father, Noah Bennet was almost like family. _“Call me Noah.”_ He'd tried to help Peter sometimes. Betrayed him other times. Yep, just like family.

Arthur. “ _No son of mine blah blah blah…”_ No. Peter refused to allow his father’s voice to invade his mind. Arthur was pure poison, the most toxic person Peter had ever known. And that was saying something considering who he was trapped with in this crazy facsimile of New York.

Charles. “ _Because there has to be one that's good. There always has. And your heart has the ability to love unconditionally. That's your strength, your true power.”_

Peter smiled at the memory. He missed Charles more than almost anyone else he’d left behind. Maybe even as much as he pined for Nathan. Charles had believed in him, had loved him like a son. His words had sustained Peter’s faith in himself through all of his missions, steadying him through missteps and failures. With Charles, there were only good feelings, no complicated futures that didn’t or wouldn’t happen, no assurances of things done for his own benefit that only brought suffering. Thinking about Charles suffused him with warmth and comfort. He let some of the tension and the pain of loss that had bedeviled him since Nathan’s death fall away.

 _“I love you, Peter_.”

“I love you too, Charles,” Peter said aloud, breaking the stillness. He rose from his perch, taking one last look at the skyline in the distance, and made his way to street level, ready to contend once more with his fellow captive. 

 

***

_Been searching for a long time in this town, Looking for a goldmine so we can get out,_ _To find a place or waste away._

“I would think you’d know by now, Peter Pan,” Sylar said, his lips forming the trademark smirk that made Peter want to slug him. “There’s no way out of Never Never Land. You and I, we’re the lost boys who will never grow up. Especially _you_.” His eyes crinkled at the corners with bad-natured amusement.

Peter and Sylar were browsing in the third hardware store of the day, seeking tools to demolish the massive brick wall that had arisen near their apartments and spanned at least a city mile. They’d tried going around the wall but somehow their path always wound back to where they had started. It was some kind of cosmic joke that none of the hardware stores so far carried sledge hammers, axes, crowbars, nor power tools of any kind.

“Stop calling me that, Sylar.” Peter devoted himself to his task of searching for implements of destruction, thinking that he’d like to use them on Sylar right now. Or anytime, really. He scanned shelves laden with boxes of nuts, bolts and screws and a pegboard display that held screwdrivers, wrenches and pliers, but nothing that could puncture brick. “There has to be a way out. You know why?”  
  
“I’d say I’m dying to find out but as you know, I can’t die.”

Peter stopped in the aisle to wait for Sylar to catch up. The killer tended to trail behind, tossing barbed comments in Peter’s wake. “It’s like Claire said to me a long time ago, before Kirby Square. I gave her a gun. I told her to shoot me if I lost control of Ted’s power. She said the universe can’t be that lame. I’m not spending the rest of my life here, with you,” he said with a grimace. “The universe can’t be that lame. So quit being a sarcastic jerk and focus. We need to do this together.”

“Yes, boss.” Sylar lifted a hand and then hurriedly dropped it. His perpetual smug mask slipped and an expression that might be guilt flickered across his face. Or maybe it was the fluorescent light overhead that had flickered but Sylar had been about to salute, Peter was sure of it. Sylar had reversed himself, though, probably remembering why that gesture was a bad idea. It was too reminiscent of Mercy Heights, when Peter had dropped him from the hospital’s roof. Climbing down from the car he had landed upon, Sylar had sauntered away, but not before looking up to give Peter a jaunty salute. The next time he had tried that move had been in the early months of their captivity in this mental prison. Enraged, Peter had charged him, grabbing Sylar by the lapels and shoving him against a wall.

“Don’t you ever fucking salute at me, you bastard!”

Sylar’s head had made a thwacking sound as it banged against the wall from the force of Peter’s attack. Several gut punches later, Sylar had slumped to the floor like an aging boxer losing his last prize fight.

 _Yeah_. Peter thought. _I’m sure he doesn’t want a repeat of that scene_. Still, it was somewhat heartening for Peter to see that the other man was capable of learning to modify his behavior. He could control his stupid impulses when he tried.

***

_Another day that goes by, another card. We know we should be grateful but sometimes it’s hard. We’re so alone, but it’s not for long._

“Yeah, it sucks being stuck here, no people, no TV, no concerts or movies, no transportation to go somewhere else.” Peter licked his ice cream off the spoon, savoring the cold, creamy sweetness, oblivious to the way the other man’s eyes watched him with avid interest. In all of their explorations, they hadn’t found so much as a tricycle to traverse the city or explore the furthest boundaries of this virtual world. Peter supposed they could rig something if they’d really wanted to and indulged in a momentary vision of the two of them fashioning a makeshift rickshaw to get around.

He smiled a little to himself at the ridiculous fantasy but the vision dissolved with the realization that Sylar would insist that Peter do most of the pulling. Anyway, he suspected that all roads would only lead back here, just as every foray beyond the wall circled back to their starting point. This place was a labyrinth, twisting back on itself like a gordian knot to maintain the illusion that they could move about at will while actually cementing them in place.

“Still beats the alternative.” Peter finished his statement with a shrug and looked back at his companion.

“What alternative would that be?” Sylar asked, seated across from Peter in the booth where they always sat when they ate at the diner. Behind him a wall of framed news clippings featured celebrities who had supposedly been here.

“We could be dead.” Peter rolled his eyes at the obvious.

“You seem to forget that I _can’t_ die. You talk like life is some kind of precious gift, but believe me, Peter, when you can’t die life isn’t a gift. It’s a curse.” Sylar spat out that last word, his eyes glittering with intensity. His dish of ice cream was melting in front of him, apparently forgotten in his ardor for the conversation topic. “You’ve always been suicidal,” Sylar continued, stabbing the air with a finger for emphasis. “I’m surprised you’re so damned pollyanna about all this after everything we’ve seen.”

“You’re wrong,” Peter said. There was no heat to his words, only sympathy for what the other man had endured. Three years alone. Three years in complete and total isolation. One thousand and ninety five days in which the only sounds were the ones Sylar had made himself and his clocks, ticking away the endless lonely hours. But Sylar had the same mistaken assumption about Peter that others had made. Peter was many things: passionate, reckless, impulsive, determined, occasionally dense, desperate to forge a place for himself in service to others. But he wasn’t suicidal.

Valuing his own life was what gave Peter the impetus to save others, to make their lives better if he could. Not even losing Nathan, by far the worst in a long list of traumatic experiences, prompted an impulse in Peter to end his life. He had wished he could sleep through the pain and find upon awakening that time had worn away the sharp edges of the agony. It didn’t work that way, of course. He knew that time’s healing balm held no magic for dreamers; the pain needed to pass through him for it to eventually mellow into something less piercing.

“What am I wrong about?” Sylar quirked a brow at Peter.

“Everything, Sylar. You. Are. Wrong. About. Everything.” Peter laughed. “Dude, you left yourself wide open for that. Seriously, though, I don’t have some secret death wish...I would never have lasted this long if I had.”  
  
“Hmmm, good point. You are ridiculously resilient.” A small, grudging grin appeared on Sylar’s face.  
  
“As for life being a curse, it’s only that if you let it be. You were alone for three years. You’ve told me that it was horrible. I can’t even imagine how you managed. But you did. Sylar, things change. They always do. You’re not alone anymore. And we are going to get out of here. I promise.”

Peter stood up and lifted his empty dish then moved to take Sylar’s. “You want some more ice cream?” he asked. “Yours is all melted.”

Sylar’s tiny grin bloomed into a real smile, with teeth and everything. A fantastic smile but not one that Peter got to see very often. He couldn’t help smiling back.

“Sure, Peter. I’ll have more ice cream. But only if you do, too.” Mischief gleamed in the killer’s eyes.  “I’d like to watch you lick the spoon again.”

***

_Well maybe we were disavowed. Careful what you wish for now. Nothing lasts forever, time will always take its toll._

“We’re not that different, you and I.” Sylar draped himself against the restaurant booth he was seated in, laying his arms along the top of the padded bench and waiting to see how his companion received his statement.

Peter’s mouth was full of pancakes so he didn’t answer right away but his eyes widened. Because of his messed up lip, Peter had to take extra care not to let food or drink escape his mouth. It was a flaw in Peter’s otherwise perfect face that Sylar found adorable.

“You mean because we’re both able to obtain abilities from other specials? That’s a similarity we share but that’s pretty much all we have in common. I would say we’re very different.” Peter sounded indignant about being compared with his arch nemesis, even if they were having breakfast together like friends. His gaze traveled around the empty diner, its tables set with napkin dispensers, salt and pepper shakers and packets of sweetener for the missing patrons who would never sit there.

“Yes, absorbing abilities is part of it. We were once two of the most powerful people on earth before dad - I mean Arthur - took your powers.” Peter’s wandering gaze returned to Sylar’s face at his accidental slip in referring to Arthur as ‘dad.’ “But we’ve also been through a lot of similar experiences. Think about it, Peter.”

“The experiences we’ve been through - I’m assuming you mean Level 5 and all that, the torture and experimentation - are hardly unique to us. Plenty of specials have gone through that.”

“Most specials don’t appreciate their abilities the way we do.” Sylar parried right back at Peter, abandoning his relaxed posture and leaning forward to make his point. He wasn’t going to let Peter dodge this topic. They were perfect foils for one another, the hero and the villain, the one driven to give and the other to take. But beneath the veneer of antagonism between them, there was a bond. Sylar was determined to make Peter admit it.

“Look where we are. Trapped and alone here, with nobody to rescue either one of us. People who should help us, other specials, they’ve left us here to rot. And none of this would have happened at all if our families hadn’t been so fucked up. My mother wanted me to be someone I wasn’t. Your family never appreciated how special you are.”  
  
“I’m special?” Peter stared at Sylar with unblinking eyes.

Sylar met his gaze and held it, enjoying the flush creeping up from under Peter’s collar. He wanted to bite that sexy neck. “Of course you are. Running around saving the world and all that, trying to save a monster like me. But back to my original point, we’re alike in a lot of ways. We both wanted to be important, special.”

“Everyone wants that,” Peter said with a dismissive wave of his hand.  
  
“No,” Sylar shot back. “Everyone wants to be special to the people in their lives, to their families, or maybe to their bosses or whatever. You and I had bigger goals. We were waiting for our destiny and it came, in the form of abilities. We have a lot in common. Just admit it.”

“Fine. Okay, we have a lot in common. Big deal.” Breakfast over, Peter slid out of the booth and waited for Sylar to join him. “What would you do if you had Hiro’s power to stop time?” It amused Sylar how Peter always asked hypothetical questions when he wanted to change the subject.

“Oh, Peter, you don’t want to know the answer to that.” Sylar smirked as he swung his long legs out of the booth.

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know. Why do you always do that, play games when I ask you questions? Just tell me what you would do.”

Sylar sidled up to Peter and pressed his left index finger against Peter’s neck, just beneath his ear. He could feel Peter’s pulse, that magnificent heart beating its steady, faithful rhythm. 

“I would bite you, right here.” He slid his finger down to where Peter’s neck met his shoulder. “And here.” Sylar trailed his hand across Peter’s collarbone to the other side of his neck, letting several fingers dance along the warm skin. “Here, too.” Peter hadn’t moved while Sylar was touching him; he hadn’t appeared to react at all. Now Sylar lifted his head to see the other man’s expression.

One side of Peter’s mouth quirked upward. “What makes you think you need to stop time to do that?” He stared right back into Sylar’s searching eyes.

Sylar answered, his voice deep and seductive. “Don’t tease me like that, Peter. I might never want to get out of here.”

_***_

_And if a broken home is on the shelf, you know what we should ask ourselves. Were we ever happy acting in a family role._  

“What do you think is worse, Peter? Growing up with a happy family and finding out later that it was all a lie,” Sylar asked, “or knowing from the start that your family was fucked up?” _Like mine_ , he thought but didn’t say. Sylar shifted his weight and tossed the rock in his hand across the pond, pleased with how it skipped over the surface several times before sinking.

“Wow, Sylar. That’s….deep.” Peter lobbed his own stone and watched its progress before turning back to the other man. Sylar’s hands were in his pockets, his posture casual, belying his interest in how Peter would answer.

“I assume you’re talking about us. I don’t know. I don’t think it was all a lie. My family loved me….well maybe not my dad. But Ma, I think she loved - loves me still. Nathan did. He was always there for me. What about you?” Peter glanced at Sylar briefly and then bent to pick up another stone from the small pile he had amassed. 

“This isn’t about me. I’m trying to understand your misplaced loyalty to people who’ve treated you so badly.” Peter didn’t respond, just stood there looking at the stone in his hand. Sylar watched as Peter passed it from one hand to the other as if he were testing its weight before snapping his arm and letting the stone fly. It went further than any of his previous tries, easily surpassing Sylar’s best toss. Sylar knew this routine, that Peter liked to turn things over in his mind before answering. The activity was his way of stalling.

Sylar waited, knowing that he had to be patient if he wanted answers from his companion. The late afternoon sun reflected off the blades of marsh grass surrounding the pond, outlining everything in glowing yellow light.

“They’re my family. I love them.” Peter finally spoke. Sylar had expected anger over the jab about Peter’s loyalty, but Peter was calm, his face solemn. “My dad, well, he was never sorry about any of the things he’d done. His motivations were evil. But Ma, Nathan….I believe they thought they were doing the right thing. They tried to make it up to me. Nathan risked his life to save me at Kirby Square, and other times.” Peter had been staring over the pond as he explained himself. Now, he looked at Sylar. “I forgive them,” he said simply, with a slight shrug. A lock of glossy dark hair fell across his forehead and Sylar wanted to touch it, to push it back behind Peter’s ear.

He nodded as if he understood what Peter had said. But it was unfathomable. He didn’t think he had ever forgiven anyone. He wouldn’t know where to begin or what it meant, in a literal sense, to carry out an act of forgiveness. Did one say a prayer? Engage in some sort of ritual? For what felt like the millionth time, he longed to know how Peter’s mind worked but the truth was as murky as the pond that had swallowed the stones they threw. Still, Peter’s answer was satisfying because the concept of forgiveness intrigued Sylar. If Peter could forgive his family’s betrayals, maybe there was hope for Sylar.

***

_Been dreaming of those bright lights, in the city. Waking with a cold fright, oh what a pity, a bad night’s sleep. The fourth this week. You're longing for a partner to get you through, wishing that in time, you'll find someone to hold onto._

Peter was startled into wakefulness by the sound of knocking. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was but as the gauzy curtain of sleep fell away, he remembered. After all this time in Sylar’s mental world, Peter still often awoke in confusion. As his heartbeat slowed to its normal rhythm, he peered out the window adjacent to his bed. The sky was beginning to cast off its blanket of darkness and Peter knew what must have brought his companion here so early. For who else could it be at his door but the only other person alive?

“Bad dreams again, huh?” Peter said as he opened the door of his apartment to a bleary-eyed Sylar. “You wanna talk about it?”

“No.” Sylar never wanted to talk about his dreams so Peter didn’t push. “Get dressed. I need coffee. Gallons of it.”

They passed the day as they often did, wandering the empty city, entertaining themselves with games and conversation, arguing and then dropping difficult topics in favor of silence.

The sun was setting as Peter and Sylar walked home from the supermarket where they had picked up groceries to make dinner. By the time they arrived, in unspoken agreement, at Sylar’s place, the sky was nearly dark and the pinpoint light of thousands of stars was beginning to emerge. It was one of the few things about this imaginary city that Peter enjoyed. Growing up in a city as brightly lit as New York, Peter wasn’t used to seeing stars. But here in this version of New York, there were no neon billboards to mar the inky perfection of the evening sky or blot out the starlight. The space dust of the Milky Way swirled overhead. It made him glad to be alive, even here, with his worst enemy.

They prepared dinner in companionable quiet. Peter was always more talkative than Sylar but today, Sylar had been more subdued than usual. Peter knew he was tired. He was grateful that at least the man wasn’t snarking at him or picking fights, as he often did.

“You look like hell, Sylar,” Peter said as they settled down to eat. “I could always give you something to help you sleep.”

“The pills don’t work. I have no trouble getting to sleep. It’s staying asleep that’s the problem.” Sylar put his fork down and looked at Peter. “Peter….”

“I’ll stay. That’s what you were going to ask, right?”

“Yes. Thank you. I always sleep better when you’re here.”

It wasn’t the first time Peter had slept on Sylar’s couch. He had agreed because he understood, as he was often plagued by bad dreams himself. He suspected that Sylar’s dreams were far worse than his own and sympathy for the killer had begun to nudge his conscience, softening the hard edges of Peter’s animosity. Sylar was lonely and tortured. Peter thought he must be ravaged by guilt, though Sylar never displayed any remorse during daylight hours. And so he bedded down on Sylar’s couch to ease the other man’s slumber. It didn’t mean anything. Peter was still angry and some part of him nursed an abiding hatred for the killer. A hidden part of himself that he didn’t like to acknowledge dreamed of revenge. He knew he’d never act on it and assumed that eventually it would resolve itself. Somehow.

Despite the lumpy couch, Peter had drifted into a deep and blessedly dreamless sleep. Shortly after midnight, sounds began to penetrate his rest. Sylar yelled, shattering the silence and dragging Peter back to full consciousness. Sitting up, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness and tried to figure out what was happening. Sylar was thrashing around and shouting “Nooo!” Peter flung his blankets back and stepped over to where Sylar slept, if one could call it sleep….it looked anything but restful. Not wanting to be hit with one of the other man’s wayward limbs, Peter avoided getting too close.

“Sylar? You’re having a bad dream. It’s ok. It’s not real.” Peter waited for Sylar to react. The thrashing and yelling continued so Peter reached out carefully and shoved his shoulder, then backed away.

“Wha? Who’s there? What the fuck do you want?”

“It’s me, Peter. Remember? I slept on your couch. You were dreaming. Sounded pretty bad. Are you okay?”

Sylar stilled, gulping harsh breaths but no longer fighting the unnamed demons that tormented him in his dreams. “Could you turn on the light?” he asked.

Peter went over to the wall and felt around for the light switch, flipping it on and bathing the room in the yellow glow from the overhead light fixture. Sylar’s bed was in complete disarray and his hair didn’t look much better, sticking out in every direction. His eyes were haunted as they found Peter’s. “Fuck!” Sylar wrapped his arms around his knees and lowered his head, burying his face.

“Don’t be embarrassed. I have some pretty bad dreams, too. It’s normal.” Peter walked back over to the bed and rubbed Sylar’s shoulder. _This is just basic survival_ , Peter told himself. _We have to co-exist and I get along better with people when I can be myself, help them if they need it. Even him._

“Nothing about this is normal,” Sylar muttered.

Peter chuckled. It wasn’t really funny but laughing defused the tension. “Well that’s true, too. You okay, man?” He sat on the edge of the bed, near Sylar’s feet, looking away to give the man some privacy.

“I’m fine. Go back to sleep, Peter. And - thank you. For being here.” His hand landed on Peter’s forearm and squeezed, then let go.

“Hey, no problem. G‘night, Sylar.”

The rest of the night passed with no further intrusions into either man’s sleep. Peter awoke to Sylar rustling around in the kitchen. He heard the coffee pot perking and sniffed the rich aroma of coffee mingled with something else that smelled delicious. “C’mon sleeping beauty, go grab a shower,” Sylar called out from the kitchen. “I’m making breakfast.”

“Mmm, smells good. What did I do to deserve a homemade breakfast?” Peter slipped off the couch and ambled into the kitchen to see what Sylar was cooking.

“You heroes need to be fortified if you’re going to save the world.” Sylar smirked, but for once it looked friendly instead of mocking. His eyes took in Peter’s sleep attire - a t-shirt and boxer briefs - and if Peter read his expression correctly, Sylar clearly approved. Peter raised an eyebrow, then turned to head for the shower before his reaction to being ogled could be any more obvious.

Returning from his shower, Peter got out the mugs, milk and sugar and poured coffee while Sylar heaped steaming pancakes onto two plates.  
  
“Yum, those look great,” Peter said. “Thank you.”

Sylar ruffled Peter’s hair. “You’re welcome.” He grinned.

 _Someone sure is friendly this morning_ , Peter thought. _I should slay his nighttime dragons more often if it improves his mood this much._ He eyed Sylar’s long, lean body, thinking how sexy he could be when he wasn’t acting like a snarky, unrepentant asshole.

As they sat down to devour the food, Peter noticed that Sylar was watching him with an impish tilt to the corners of his mouth.

“You like the pancakes?”

“Mmm, yeah.” Peter sipped his coffee.

“You should marry me.” Sylar deadpanned.

Peter choked, spewing coffee all over his clean shirt and on the scarred wooden table in front of him. He was pretty sure some of the coffee had come out of his nose.

“Ugh, Peter, that’s disgusting!” But Sylar was laughing. “Jesus, the look on your face. Would it be so bad?”

Struggling to recover from his choking fit and blotting up the mess he’d made, Peter sputtered. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m kidding. Sort of. But, Peter, there’s no reason for you to be all alone in that apartment when you could live here. I’m neat, I don’t snore and I can cook. You’re not too much of a slob, you only snore a little and you’re good at staving off nightmares. It’s a perfect arrangement. Besides, you look really good in your underwear and I could get used to seeing that.” Sylar arched an infamous eyebrow at Peter.

“Have you lost your mind, Sylar? Just because we’re trying to be civil to one another doesn’t mean I’m going to move in with you. I don’t think being roommates would be a good idea. We’re always fighting as it is. And anyway, there’s only one bed here.” As if the bed were the issue.  
  
“So?” That eyebrow again.

“What?! You think I’m going to sleep in the same bed with you? You really are going off the deep end. We hate each other, remember?” Peter shook his head at this unlikely turn of events. He’d seen more strange things than he could ever have dreamed of since discovering his abilities, but this had to be among the top five weirdest experiences of his life. He had a feeling Sylar was playing him. He couldn’t be serious.

Looking back at Sylar, Peter detected a flash of hurt before Sylar rearranged his face into its more familiar smug contours.

“Clearly I don’t hate you anymore. Not much, anyway. But fine, you hate me. I understand. I’m a monster. Never mind,” he said with a wave of his hand. “You don’t have to decide now. But think about it. It could be good for both of us.”

Peter pushed himself away from the table and got to his feet. “I’m going for a walk. I need to clear my head and you need to clear yours. Don’t follow me.” Peter headed for the door but before he could leave, Sylar intercepted him.

“No, no, don’t leave. Stay. No pressure.” Sylar placed a hand flat on the door and blocked Peter’s way with his body. Despite his claim of no pressure, he was radiating intensity. It was infuriating. And, Peter hated to admit, unbearably sexy. Sylar hooked a finger under Peter’s collar and slid it along the neckline of his shirt. Then all five fingers were touching Peter’s chest, trailing down his torso to the waistband of his jeans, back up his arm to his shoulder, and further up alongside his neck. Sylar’s eyes followed the movement of his hand while Peter stood immobile, shocked into inaction and more than a little turned on. Sylar’s hand stopped moving to bury itself in Peter’s hair. Only then did Sylar make eye contact. Peter could get lost in those dark eyes that captured his gaze and didn’t let go.  
  
“I know we have a complicated...relationship.” Sylar voice was deliciously throaty, his fingers gentle as they sifted through Peter’s hair. “But we need each other, Peter. You know that, don’t you?”

***

  _Heavens have you seen, the news that’s on the screen, it’s all violence, heartbreak and misery._

Silvery dark clouds smothered the sky over the city but no rain fell. Sylar stood on the highest parapet of Belvedere Castle in Central Park, reaching down to help Peter heave himself over the balustrade. They had scaled the castle a few times before, using ropes and other climbing aids, but today, Peter had wanted to try it solo. They had already climbed all of the big rocks elsewhere in the park and the castle had been the next challenge for two lonely men with nothing but time on their hands.

It occurred to Peter as Sylar grabbed his hand that this was a role reversal of the night on the rooftop of Mercy Heights Hospital when Peter had tried to pull Sylar up and ultimately relinquished his hold, believing at the time that it was his brother he was letting go of. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you,” Sylar said, his grip strong and sure. Peter hadn’t been worried but he nodded his thanks. “Okay.”

“Did you know this used to be the weather station for the city?” Peter asked, after hauling himself over the final obstacle to join Sylar. “The weather station is somewhere else now, but the tower supposedly still has wind equipment.”  
  
“What is this, _Jeopardy_?” Sylar snarked. “I’ll take New York City trivia for $500, Alex.”

Shaking his head at Sylar’s sarcasm, Peter turned his back and strolled to the other side of the parapet to take in the view of the park. The trees were decked out in shades of autumn, luminous in the gray light of the overcast afternoon. A few days prior, the two men had begun their third year in captivity together. Peter knew that his arrival here had been in the fall but he didn’t mark time the way that Sylar of the obsession with clocks did. It was Sylar who always told him what day it was. Peter didn’t really care to know with such precision. Counting the days only made it harder to stay in the moment and preserve his faith that they would get out of here.

The first year, all they had done was fight like the mortal enemies they were. Sylar had been clear he wasn’t the savior type and if he wouldn’t help rescue Emma and the people at the carnival, Peter had no use for him. They’d beaten each other bloody and crawled off to their separate apartments to recover until the isolation drew them back together to repeat the pattern.

The appearance of the wall had offered Peter a new focus for his fathomless hate, rage and pain. Peter had beat at the wall with stubborn, ruthless persistence, channeling all of his tortured emotions into demolishing the towering barricade that imprisoned them instead of killing the only person he had left. It had been weeks of unceasing hammering before Sylar had agreed to wield a sledgehammer, even though he had insisted it was pointless. But Sylar lacked Peter’s physical strength and endurance. A few days in, he had dropped his sledgehammer in frustration, his hands blistered and bleeding.

The wall endured unblemished but something had changed. They began to talk -- about books, music, old TV shows -- and their fights diminished although they didn’t stop. Slowly, they spiraled closer to the heart of the enmity between them, then danced away when talking became yelling and fists began to fly once more. They’d ignore each other again for weeks, Peter pounding away at the wall while Sylar repaired his never-ending supply of clocks and timepieces. Then Sylar would return with peace offerings….a sandwich, a cold drink, a frozen dessert. Sometimes he’d bring a book and read while Peter worked. One day Peter asked him to read aloud and that was how they’d begun to take turns reading to one another while the other had a go at the wall. Still, the wall remained impervious.

For all of his grim determination in attacking the wall, Peter had limits. One day, snarling, he had spun around with the sledgehammer held high and, instead of beating the wall, he had begun to smash everything within reach. Trash cans crumpled, concrete planters exploded into fragments, the wrought iron fence surrounding a building adjacent to the wall buckled. Sylar, who had been sitting on the ground with his long legs drawn up in front of him and his book resting on his knees, scrambled to his feet and backed away in alarm. Catching the movement in the midst of his tirade, Peter stopped swinging but he continued to heft the sledgehammer in both hands. Winded and breathing hard from the exertion, he studied Sylar’s face. Fear was a new expression for Sylar or, at least, one Peter had never seen.

“Do you think I’m going to hit _you_?” Peter had spent his rage for now but how would Sylar know that?

“I don’t know, Peter. Do you want to?” It was a weird answer, almost an invitation.

“Yeah, I do,” Peter breathed, but he let the sledgehammer fall to the ground. “I’m not going to.”

“Why not? You should. I’m a monster. If you hit me just right, maybe you can finally kill me.” The killer locked eyes with Peter, daring him to act out his darkest desire.

Peter wasn’t going to play this game. He didn’t need to prove anything to Sylar. Casting his eyes down, he wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans. “I don’t want to kill you, Sylar. I want to make you suffer. It’s wrong, so I’m not going to. That’s not who I am.”

“Who are you, then?” The tone of Sylar’s voice drew Peter’s scrutiny. Was Sylar mocking him again? But no, he appeared confused. For the first time, Peter thought he glimpsed the person behind the arrogant bravado. He was human, just a guy who only moments ago had reacted in fear that Peter might kill him and now seemed more afraid that murder wasn’t on the menu.

Peter exhaled a long breath. “I’m Peter Petrelli. A man who misses his brother and who is angry at you because you killed him, you’re not sorry and you won’t help me do what I came here for.”

“You’re right. I’m not sorry I killed him. Your asshole brother was a danger to his own kind and if you’re going to hit me for saying that, go right ahead. It’s the truth.” There was more than a trace of venom in Sylar’s voice before he paused and looked away. He resumed speaking, softer now. “But I am sorry for hurting you, if that makes any sense.”

“It doesn’t. None of this makes any sense,” Peter said, ignoring Sylar’s old, familiar insult of Nathan. It was the first time Sylar had expressed anything resembling an apology, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t remorse. Peter didn’t know what it was. “I’m tired, Sylar. I am so fucking tired. Of everything.”

Sylar had nodded. “I know.”

And now here they were, another year gone, the wall still standing and nothing resolved. They’d agreed to take a break, as they sometimes did, from the futility of it all. It had been weeks since they’d been there. They had spent the time ransacking empty apartments, eating their way through all of the restaurants in a five mile radius of their apartments and scrambling over every rock and structure in Central Park. They’d argued almost daily because despite knowing each other as well as two enemies could after so much time together, they didn’t understand one another. Peter wanted answers and Sylar couldn’t give him any.

Sylar’s explanations ran the gamut of bullshit excuses, blaming others or falling back on his old standby, “Because I’m a killer and killers kill.” Either Sylar didn’t know why he’d killed so many people, which tugged at Peter’s sympathy that the man might be driven by forces he couldn't control, or he didn’t think he owed Peter an explanation, which was infuriating. Peter suspected the truth was a little of both.

He didn’t know which was worse - an unfeeling, amoral psychopath who killed because he lacked any fragment of humanity or someone who knew right from wrong and did wrong anyway. Peter didn’t think Sylar was a psychopath, not anymore. No, Sylar was as human as anyone else. He’d shown the capacity for mercy, even kindness. He had spared some people, saved others, including Peter, sometimes at great personal risk. But then, why?

Peter shook his head to loosen the knot of twisted thoughts. This morning, Peter had said that he wanted to get back to work and ever since, Sylar had been been pissy, sarcastic and smug. It wasn’t that different from his usual personality...smugness and condescension seemed to be defaults for him. But there was an edge today that hadn’t been present in recent weeks. It was aggravating Peter’s every last nerve.

“It’s not like you to be so quiet, Peter.” Sylar startled Peter with his uncanny knack for sneaking up behind him and getting right into his personal space. The man’s mouth was nearly touching his ear. “What’s wrong? Did the resident bad guy hurt your sensitive feelings when you were showing off your command of city lore?” Sylar wasn’t big on apologies but Peter knew this was his socially off-kilter way of smoothing things over after his snarky remark. Peter wasn’t prepared to let him off easily.

Without turning around, he responded. “You can’t hurt my feelings, Sylar, because I don’t have any for you. No good ones, anyway.” It was mean but Peter didn’t care about being the good guy anymore. Sylar was a jerk. It wasn’t entirely true, though, about his feelings. The hate and anger still simmered, but they had become mingled with sympathy and, when Sylar wasn’t being a smug asshole, something approaching friendliness. Peter wouldn’t say they were friends but maybe they were allies of sorts.  
  
“Bullshit. Admit it, you enjoy my company.” Now Sylar was crowding Peter, exuding predatory interest. Peter suspected Sylar was still angry but he was taking a different tack now. The seduction angle. It was sexy and tempting, especially when that long, lean body was so close and warm, but Peter couldn’t forget who he was dealing with. An unrepentant killer. His brother’s killer. Who, for some reason, flip-flopped from menacing to seducing him. Peter supposed it was an improvement over their former pastime of trying to kill one another.

Peter snorted. “It’s not like I have a lot of other people to spend time with. But yeah, you’re okay sometimes.”

“That’s what I like about you, you’re so effusive with praise. Tell me why you want to go pound that stupid wall, which clearly isn’t going anywhere, when there are so many other things we could be doing?” And just like that, Sylar was pressed against him, long, muscled arms wrapping around Peter’s waist, his hot mouth whispering invitation in his ear. Sylar stroked Peter’s chest and abdomen and then hooked his thumbs into the front of Peter’s jeans. “I can make you feel good. Really good. Forget all your troubles.” Sylar’s voice was deep and rough and awash with dark promise.

Inhaling deeply, Peter leaned against the taller man behind him and reveled in the feel of him. He wished he could forget and just take the comfort offered. They were both lonely and hungering for human warmth, the touch of another to anchor them to reality. But there were too many complications. Murder being one of them. Lack of trust another, with shame and fear rounding out the list.

“I can’t,” Peter said. “You keep trying to tempt me and I just can’t. I wish you wouldn’t ask.” Peter reached for Sylar’s hands and removed them from his waist, stepping away from the killer and looking back at him over his shoulder. Sylar’s brows were drawn together in confusion and hurt before settling on something more practiced and less vulnerable. His face darkened like the clouds overhead that had begun to drizzle.  
  
Sylar stalked forward and shoved Peter who had to scramble to keep his balance. “Fuck off, you fucking liar. You do so want me to ask. You love rejecting me, you righteous dick. Make sure you wash your hands of me later like some creepy stranger who touched you on the subway. It doesn’t mean anything…it’s just a biological urge, not a goddamn moral imperative.”

“What?” Peter was incredulous. “Are you saying that I’m leading you on? Because that is complete and total bullshit and you know it. I’ve made it clear from the start that you and I are not hooking up.”  Peter added nastily, “I guess when you’re the most powerful guy around you’re used to getting what you want, huh?”

“All of my partners have been willing. Not to mention eager.” Sylar spat back. “If you don’t think you’re sending mixed messages, then you’re more deluded than I thought. These outings, reading to me, sleeping on my couch. Touching me. The way you react when I touch you.”

“Sylar, I was being kind. You were all messed up from your nightmares. That’s all. It _is_ more than a biological urge.” Peter ignored some of the other things the man mentioned, not sure how to characterize them in his favor. _Was he sending mixed messages?_ He didn’t want to think about that.

The drizzle had become a steady patter of raindrops as the two men faced off on the parapet high above the park. Sylar shoved back the wet hair that had flattened against his forehead.

“Why? Why does it have to be more?” he demanded, shouting over the sound of the rain.

Peter wrestled with his self-control not to shout back. Sometimes a quiet voice was more effective to persuade people to listen. “Because of who you are. What you’ve done. Don’t you get it? You kill people. You killed my brother.”

“Yes, Peter. I get it. It’s always about what I’ve done, never about your family, your fellow heroes, what the Company does to other specials. What’s been done to me.” Sylar mimicked what Peter had said to him days earlier. “You _forgive_ them. You _love_ them. Didn’t you ever used to watch the news? It’s all violence, heartbreak and misery. Even here with just the two of us. It’s the human condition. We hurt others before they can hurt us. Why don’t _you_ get _that_?”

“That’s not how it has to be, Sylar. That’s not how I want it to be. It’s not how it _is_ ,” Peter poured all of his faith and passion into his words as if they could penetrate Sylar’s tough exterior and make him believe. “You only see the bad stuff that people do. I get the impression you haven’t had much that’s good in your life. I’m sorry about that. I wish it had been different for you. But we have the capacity to be better, even you. I’ve _seen_ it. I came here because of a dream that told me _you_ were going to save people. You’ve done it before. And yes, I’ve forgiven the people in my life. You’ve never acted like you wanted that, from me.”

“If I wanted forgiveness, would you grant it? I don’t think you can, Peter. I don’t think you can forgive a psychopath like me,” Sylar said with quiet bitterness.

 _This is just rhetorical_ , Peter thought. Sylar wasn’t contrite. He wanted a get out of jail free card, not redemption. But could he forgive? Peter sighed. “I don’t know,” he answered truthfully, his eyes darting everywhere to avoid Sylar’s face.

“Of course not.” Sylar barked out a laugh. “That’s just something else for you to hold over my head, so you can make me beg.” He drew himself up to his full height, looking down at the shorter man with a sneer. “I am Sylar. I don’t beg. Not for anything, and especially not from you.”

Peter hesitated as Sylar spun and headed towards the stairs. _He’s an asshole. A murderer. He’s not sorry for any of it. Let him leave. I’m sick of his sarcasm and insults. He killed my brother and_ he’s _angry? Fuck him._

A moment later, Peter changed his mind and moved to apprehend the killer. “Sylar, wait!” Sylar ignored him and kept going, reaching the lower balcony and turning to descend the next staircase. His long legs and the head start gave him the advantage and Peter didn’t want to run after him like an annoying little brother. That would be too much. Instead, Peter grasped the stone banister and vaulted over it, landing just behind his irascible companion. Sylar turned to glance at Peter. “Ever the hero,” he said with a roll of his eyes and resumed walking.

Peter grabbed Sylar’s bicep and the killer stopped. The way he looked at the hand on his arm stirred an alarm in Peter, as if a brawl were imminent. “Wait. Please.” At that, Sylar shifted his gaze to Peter’s face and lofted an eyebrow. _Now who’s begging_ , Peter thought. But he wasn’t begging, just asking.

“I’m not trying to humiliate you, Sylar,” Peter fixed his hazel eyes on Sylar’s. “I don’t - There’s no etiquette book for this situation. I came here to ask for your help. You refused. I don’t know where we go from here.”

“No, you didn’t ask. You demanded.”

Swallowing his impatience, Peter said, “I’m asking now.”

“And what’s in it for me?” Sylar asked with narrowed eyes.

“I don’t know. I thought...No. I didn’t think. I saw in a dream that it was you and ...,” Peter shrugged helplessly. “Pretty stupid, huh? There’s nothing in it for you.”  
  
“That’s what I thought.” Sylar gritted his teeth and peeled Peter’s hand off his arm as if he were removing a leech. “Fuck off, Petrelli.”

Peter had no idea what to do next, so he did nothing. The rain dripped from his hair into his eyes as he watched Sylar stride away with his hands stuffed in his pockets.

***

_Heavens have you seen, what they have done to me, I’m a hollow shell from the grim nineties._

Sylar was drenched by the time he reached his apartment, his shoes squeaking on the tile floor of the hallway and his sodden wool coat weighing heavily on his shoulders. He removed the coat and hung it up, kicked off his shoes and stripped off his wet clothes. After toweling his dripping hair and rubbing the dampness from his body, he dressed in sweatpants and a dark blue hoodie. He was cold, tired, angry and depressed. He should fix himself something to eat but, irrationally, he decided against it, hoping his hunger would distract him from the confusion and disappointment he was feeling. Nothing about this day had gone right. Although it had been only a few hours since they’d parted, he was already lonely for his inscrutable nemesis.

Half the time, Sylar thought that Peter was consistent in his behavior and if he pressed just the right buttons, he’d get the reaction he wanted from him. The rest of the time, he felt as if he were the one being manipulated. He couldn’t be sure, though. Peter was an open book, disarming in his honesty but written in a language Sylar couldn’t read. Nathan’s memories and his own experiences after two years stranded alone together were little help in solving the mystery that was Peter Petrelli.

He wished there were something else to think about in this godforsaken place. He needed to lose himself in a good book. Or maybe tinker with one of his timepieces. Spying the book on the kitchen counter, he decided. The book it would be. He couldn’t read and think about Peter’s last words at the same time. Peter had said there was nothing in it for Sylar even if he did agree to help him with his preposterous mission. Sylar couldn’t shake the vision of Peter pelted by raindrops, his clothes clinging to him, dark hair plastered to his head and hazel eyes full of sadness and resignation. He was so fucking beautiful. _I hate him_.

It wasn’t daylight that awoke him but hunger. He had fallen asleep reading his book after forgetting to eat the night before. Well no he hadn’t forgotten. He had been in a foul mood and hell bent on punishing himself for the disagreement with Peter. Sometimes he wondered if he had been better off before Peter had arrived with his emo hair and crazy story about rescuing people at the carnival. Him, a killer, saving people. How stupid. As he poured himself a bowl of cereal, Sylar wondered if Peter would come by but he doubted it. Peter almost never sought him out after a fight. Sylar had asked him once, after provoking a disagreement that had ended with them sporting matching black eyes, how long he would have stayed away if Sylar hadn’t broken the week-long impasse.  
  
Peter had shrugged. “I guess I’d track you down eventually, but you’re pissed off at me. I figure you need space.” That was so ridiculous it was almost funny. “I don’t want space, Peter,” he had responded. “I’ve had three years of it.”

After showering, Sylar stood in front of the mirror preparing to shave. Haunted dark eyes stared back at him. Maybe Peter never made the first move because Sylar hadn’t ever given him the chance. He didn’t feel like he had the energy to deal with Peter today but he also knew that Peter had far more patience with their separations than he did. Give him three years, perhaps he’d feel differently. Of course, that would never happen because Sylar wasn’t going to spend another three years alone just to prove a point, not when he knew there was another human being out there. Even one as impossible as the floppy haired EMT.

As he shaved, his thoughts moved on to what he was going to say whenever he next saw Peter. It was a useless train of thought. Despite his skill at planning out a course of action, people never followed Sylar’s rule book. They’d say or do something unexpected, Sylar would react and his carefully constructed plan would crumble to pieces in an instant. That was why he had never sustained any long-term relationships. Unlike the complications in his beloved timepieces, people weren’t fixable. He couldn’t take them apart and put them back together the way he wanted them to be. Peter wanted answers. Perhaps it was time to give him some, if only Sylar knew what they were.

He knew Peter’s life story but Peter didn’t know his. What he hadn’t learned from Nathan’s memories, Peter had told him himself. He wasn’t naive enough to believe that Peter had shared everything. Everyone had secrets. This wasn’t about Peter’s hidden depths, though. It was about what was in it for Sylar. Could he agree to help Peter with his mission? What would be the harm? They were never getting out of here anyway so why not let Peter believe Sylar was his ally if it got him what he wanted...trust, a connection, possibly something more. Except that Peter had said there was nothing in it for him whether he agreed or not. So then no point in sharing secrets that could be used against him.

Round and round he went, up, down, over and under every dark path in his twisted journey from mild-mannered Gabriel Gray to super-powered killer. How could Peter understand when Sylar didn’t know himself where Gabriel left off and Sylar began, whether it was his abusive childhood, his yearning to be special or the ability-fueled hunger that drove him. Maybe all of them together, or perhaps it was just his destiny to take what others weren’t using and didn’t appreciate. Sylar didn’t believe in God, though, and if heavenly beings didn’t exist then the idea of destiny was itself just another ancient myth. Banishing the entire thought process, he strode over to his work bench. His mind needed a challenge that didn’t involve the hazel-eyed man who had ended his solitary confinement.

The next day, Sylar decided that the anticipation of confronting Peter again was worse than any possible reality could be. _Famous last words_ he reminded himself but proceeded to groom and dress himself. His pea coat had taken a long time to dry after soaking up so much rain, but it was fine now, although it smelled faintly of dampness. Shrugging into the coat, Sylar left his apartment in search of the amazing, aggravating Peter Petrelli.

To his surprise, he found Peter sitting on the stoop across the street from his apartment. “How long have you been here?”

“Not long,” Peter answered. “I came by yesterday too but I left after a half hour or so. Is this the first time you’ve left your apartment since that day in the rain?”

“Yes.”

“Needed space, huh?” Peter smirked.

“No, just time.” Sylar returned the smirk.

“Same thing,” Peter quipped, earning a genuine chuckle from Sylar.

“Are you hungry? I haven’t had breakfast yet.” Peter got to his feet and stretched while Sylar tried to fix his eyes anywhere but on the lithe body beside him. He needed to stay focused on his plan and having his mind in the gutter was too tempting a distraction.

“You know me. I can always eat.”

“Diner?” Peter’s eyebrows went up slightly with the inflection in his voice, forming slight furrows in his forehead that betrayed his age. Not that he was old, but he tended to look younger in repose.

“Sure.” Now that they had a plan, Peter began walking and Sylar matched his stride. For someone with considerably shorter legs than Sylar’s, Peter covered ground efficiently. Sylar was amused and pleased by the thought that they were compatible in this one small way.

They sat in their usual booth near the window, a habit that Sylar supposed was borne of years on the run for both of them. It made for an easier exit should any unwanted company arrive, even though there was nobody else here and never would be.

“I’ve been thinking, Peter,” Sylar began. “You want answers. I want to help you.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “You mean with the carnival? Saving Emma?”

“No, not that. I mean, I don’t know. Maybe. But not now. I want to tell you,” Sylar paused, thinking of how to phrase it. “Things I haven’t shared before. I hardly know where to start.”

“Start at the beginning,” Peter said, unhelpfully.

“It’s complicated.”

Peter looked at his watch, the one he always wore even though it hadn’t told time since he’d arrived here. Sylar wished Peter would let him fix it. It was another Petrelli mystery, this refusal to let him fix the damn watch. “I’ve got nothing but time, Sylar.”

Clearing his throat, Sylar began. Peter understood about fucked up fathers so he started there.

“You remember I told you about my father? He had an ability.”

“You said you had found him, so I assume he wasn't around your whole childhood.” Peter replied. “What was his ability?”

“Can't you guess?” Tilting his head down and looking up at Peter from under his thick brows, Sylar tried to convey the obvious. It was a menacing look. He knew because he’d practiced it in the mirror many times.

“The hu- Your ability?” Ha! Peter was riveted. It had been a good decision to start with Samson Gray. Sylar let his sneer confirm Peter’s guess.

“Anyway,” Sylar continued. “My dad was, as you can probably imagine, not a good guy. You know, baseball games and fatherly chats? Not his thing. My earliest memory is my father killing my mother.”

Peter’s body language did all the wrong things that had made Sylar never want to talk about this before, the other man’s big solemn eyes betraying shock and sorrow.

“Jesus, Sylar! What the fuck?!” Peter reached out with one hand before Sylar cut him off.

“Shut it Peter and don't you dare touch me. You can wipe that look off your face too. I don't want your pity.”

“It's not pity, Sylar. My God…” Peter was shaking his head but Sylar stopped him again. “I'm warning you, Petrelli.”

“Okay, okay.” Peter raised his hands in the universal backing off gesture. “I won't say anything. Or move. Go on.”

Sylar thought back to the memory he had repressed until that day in the abandoned diner with Luke. (What was it about diners?) His father had just exchanged a wad of cash with a man Gabriel had never seen before. Then he exited the diner without even saying goodbye. Chasing after him, Gabriel saw his father climb into the car without him. The car rolled forward and then there was red everywhere, spattered on all the car windows. The passenger door opened and Gabriel’s mother fell out, or was pushed. He couldn’t remember, exactly. The sound she had made when her body hit the ground was sickening. The memory ended there, no matter how much Sylar had probed his mind for the rest of it after ditching Luke.

“How old were you?” Peter asked in a quiet voice.

“The photo albums in my mother’s house - the woman who raised me - dated back to 1980. So, four? Maybe five.” Sylar examined his hands. It was difficult enough to be having this conversation. He couldn’t bear to see Peter’s face while he did it.

“I didn’t know until I recovered that memory. I thought the people who raised me were my parents.” He closed his eyes, remembering his adoptive mother so that he could tell Peter about her. The cloying scent of her perfume came back to him. She had been religious and believed that punishment was the only way to wash away sin. Redemption came with suffering, she had said and, in all fairness to her, Sylar knew that every blow, every harsh word spoken, every hour of confinement in the dark closet had caused her pain, too. He had loved her anyway. “I was a difficult child,” Sylar explained, as if it had been that simple.

“No wonder,” Peter whispered but he didn’t say anything else and he kept his face neutral.

Sylar wrapped up his fairytale with the part about meeting Chandra Suresh and learning that he had an ability. He told Peter about his decision to track down his first special. Peter already knew most of the stuff about the Company and Sylar wasn’t about to detail any of his kills, other than to inform Peter that Bennet and Elle had set him up by introducing him to his second special. He omitted the abuses at the hands of his pretend father and his final, doomed visit with his mother. Some other time, maybe.

Sylar wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he ended his narrative. That was odd; he never lost track of time. He knew he’d drunk cup after cup of tea. His throat had gotten so dry from all the talking; he didn’t think he’d ever spoken for so long in his entire life. Peter didn’t interrupt except to clarify a few times and to utter sympathetic noises that made Sylar feel pathetic until he finally told Peter to shut the hell up. Peter’s breakfast was in front of him, now congealing. He hadn’t touched his food at all. 

It wasn’t an explanation or an apology. It was just a story that didn’t change anything except that now Peter knew some things he hadn’t known before. Sylar looked at his audience of one expectantly.

“What?” Peter asked, furrowing his brow.

“Don’t you have anything to say?”

“I’m afraid if I do you’ll tell me to shut up again.”

“I won’t tell you to shut up if you don’t say anything weird.”

“Sylar, I think you and I have very different ideas about what would be weird to say in this situation,” Peter said. “How do you feel?”

“I need to take a piss because I must have drunk a gallon of tea.” Sylar left the table to find the restroom. How _did_ he feel? Drained. Pathetic. Not special. Weak. How the fuck did Peter think he felt? For someone who was supposed to be an empath, he asked dumb questions sometimes.

When Sylar returned from the restroom, Peter had cleaned up their table and was waiting by the door, facing the expanse of empty street beyond the window where they had been sitting. If his expression were any indication, Peter’s thoughts were very far away. For once Sylar had no desire to know what Peter was thinking, just waited beside him until he returned to earth. When Peter shook off his fugue, he glanced at Sylar and said, “I have an idea.”

 _Oh, no_. Sylar thought, but didn’t say. He waited with dread to hear what his confessor had in mind.

“You know that music store we passed all those times on the way to Central Park? Let’s go there. I want to get a guitar. I haven’t played in ages and it’s too damn quiet around here. We need to make some noise.”

“Oh, okay,” Sylar said, with a slight chuckle as relief leaked into his voice. Running a shaky hand through his hair, he followed his companion out the door, glad that it appeared they weren’t going to do any more talking. He’d had enough of that.

***

  ** _I Am A Nightmare,_** **Brand New _:_**

_Turn tin to gold, I want pure energy. Throw everything I own into the fire. I want to throw up snakes, I want to find a way. Do I have to die to see the other side?  
_

The guitar became Peter’s constant companion, second only in focus to the damned wall. By day, Peter would hit the wall like Sisyphus pushing the rock up the hill. By night, he played his guitar. He was no virtuoso - Jimi Hendrix’s legacy was safe - but it was good enough for rock ‘n roll and Peter had been right that it was too damn quiet here. The noise was a welcome intrusion. Seated cross-legged on the floor of Sylar’s apartment a week later, Peter played a song Sylar hadn’t heard before. He knew most of Peter’s repertoire….Beatles, Springsteen, Green Day. Sylar was on the couch with one leg tucked underneath him, his book forgotten on his lap.

“What song is that, Peter? I don’t think I know it.”

“It’s by Brand New. I think I’m butchering it. I don’t have the sheet music.” He started to play again, halting at first and rearranging his fingers until he found the right chords. “It’s called _I Am A Nightmare, You Are A Miracle_.”

“Is it about us?”

Peter laughed, a full-throated sound that Sylar liked to hear. It didn’t happen often enough. Peter’s fingers moved over the guitar strings as he sang a verse under his breath then looked up at Sylar with a small, sideways smile. “Yeah. I think it is.”

“Tell me the words,” Sylar demanded.

“It’s not exactly a lullaby, Sylar.” Peter looked up at the ceiling, plucking the instrument and humming softly. “Okay, I really only know one verse and then the chorus.” In the subdued indoor lighting, his eyes were darker than usual and unreadable as he sang.

 

> _I’m not a prophecy come true, I’ve just been goddamn mean to you, so what is this thing laced with, please don’t replace me, I surrender, embrace me, whatever I’m faced with. I am a nightmare and you are a miracle. We’re growing out of the ground, it’s kind of freaking me out…_

Sylar didn’t know whether to be amused at how much the lyrics matched their situation or annoyed at Peter for choosing the song.  “Subliminal much, Petrelli? I think that’s my part. I should be playing that song for you, if I knew how to play.”

Peter got to his feet in one move, stepped over to the couch and extended the guitar to Sylar. Sylar looked at him as if he had been asked to perform a Bach concerto. “What am I going to do with this? You know I don’t play.” But he arranged his hands on the guitar the way he’d seen Peter do and experimented with the sounds the strings made. Peter sat on the couch, angled to face Sylar, and reached for his hands. “Do you mind? I’m just going to show you where to put your fingers. Oh, wait....you’re left-handed, aren’t you?” Peter frowned.

“It’s okay, I’m ambidextrous.” Just that small, innocent contact of Peter’s hand touching his fingers made Sylar feel warm. Human connection was in short supply here.

“Alright, well try it this way. We could always go back to the store and get you a left-handed guitar if you decide you want to learn.” Peter explained what he was doing as he arranged Sylar’s fingers. “How’s your ear?”

“My ear? Which one?” Puzzled, Sylar touched his left ear, then his right.

“No,” Peter laughed, the second time in one night that Sylar had coaxed such amusement from his companion. “I meant your ear for music. Can you tell when something doesn’t sound right?”

“Oh, that. Yeah, my ear is fine. I have intuitive aptitude, remember? Even though abilities don’t work here, that still functions...I can figure out how things work. Like your empathy, I guess.”

Peter nodded and the guitar lesson continued. By the end of it, Sylar could strum a passable riff from Green Day’s _Good Riddance_.

“Was that another subliminal message for me...good riddance?” Sylar asked.

Peter snorted. “No. You’re just paranoid.”

“Hmm.” Sylar murmured. “That’s probably true.” He didn’t know what made him blurt out his next words but it was probably a combination of the music soothing his nerves and all this friendliness between himself and Peter. “Explain forgiveness to me.”

Peter was occupied with putting the guitar back in its case when Sylar posed his request. When he swung around to look at Sylar, Peter’s face was contorted. “What?”

“You said you forgave your family. I don’t know how that works. Is there a ritual?”

“Um, no.” Peter blew air up through his lips, ruffling the wayward lock of hair that was forever falling into his face. He alternated fussing with the guitar case and glancing at Sylar, who was still on the couch. “There’s no ritual. Weren’t you raised Catholic? What do you remember learning about it?”

“I’m not interested in what religion has to say,“ Sylar said. “I want to know how people do it. And why.”

Peter zipped up the guitar case and laid it against the wall. Turning back to Sylar, he walked over to the couch and perched on its arm. “I don’t know. Forgiveness is a pretty big topic. There’ve probably been billions of words written about it. Maybe you should get some books from the library.”

“Maybe I will.” Sylar huffed in frustration. “But I’m not asking about the religious or philosophical aspects. I want to know about the mechanics of it.” It was typical of Peter to always want answers yet here he was being evasive when Sylar had questions.

“The mechanics? That’s a strange way to put it.” Peter stared at the wall and Sylar stared at Peter as if he could burn through his skull to see the gears tumbling in his mind. “It’s not like fixing timepieces, Sylar. Why do you want to know, anyway?" 

Why did he want to know? He hadn’t known he was going to ask until the words were out of his mouth. He wasn’t asking as a prelude to requesting forgiveness from Peter. He didn’t believe that was possible. Perhaps it was simply his original ability that always drove him to know, to understand.

“I want to know if penance is involved. We talk about criminals making restitution. If a criminal gets away with his crimes, can he be forgiven? What if he isn’t sorry? What if he keeps doing it? You’ve forgiven people. Just tell me what’s involved, how you did it.”

Peter sighed. “I don’t know if I can explain it. Everyone’s different and how I feel about it might not be how others feel. But for me, what the other person does has almost nothing to do with my forgiving them. It’s a … decision, I guess. A letting go of emotion about whatever happened.”

“You, letting go of emotion?” Sylar snarked. “I didn’t think that was possible.” That was an interesting twist, though, that the fiery hero could put his emotions aside. Maybe Peter had better control of his original ability, his empathy, than he did over all the other powers that he absorbed. It made sense when he thought about it because he had seen Peter be calm when Sylar had been doing his level best to provoke him. Peter was kind, too, even when Sylar knew he didn’t deserve it. Well, most of the time the EMT was kind, when he wasn’t swinging his fists.

“The thing is, Sylar, forgiveness isn’t earned.”  Those somber eyes on him made Sylar almost wish Peter would punch him instead. He’d always found it difficult to withstand Peter’s scrutiny. “It’s granted. It’s a gift, a form of love, really. That’s why God forgives us even when we don’t deserve it.”

“I see,” Sylar said but he didn’t. It was confusing and if it was a gift that meant there was nothing anyone could do to be forgiven if the other person chose not to grant it. That was a depressing thought. He didn’t get the part about love, either. There was no love lost between him and Peter. “So even if I were sorry...about any of it, it wouldn’t matter. Because it would be up to you if I could be forgiven.”

“No,” Peter shook his head. “I never said being sorry doesn’t matter. It always matters. For one thing, it can help the other person make the decision to forgive. It’s just not a guarantee that they will. But it still helps,” he leaned over and rested his hand on Sylar’s shoulder, giving a slight squeeze. “To forgive yourself, you know?”

Sylar didn’t know how to answer any of that, not the hand on his shoulder nor the concept of self-forgiveness. It was a revelation. He had never thought about forgiving himself but now that he did, it occurred to him that it would be easier to conjure a crowd of people into this empty world than to allow any balm on his bruised and bloody conscience.

***

  _So come shake your zen out, give me pure energy, my heart is glowing fluorescent, I want you to possess it._

Peter was putting his coat on. “I’m tired, Sylar, and this topic is making my head hurt. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Sylar wanted him to stay but he wouldn’t ask. Instead he said “Breakfast is on me this time.” Peter grinned. “Deal. I’ll get the tip.”

For once it wasn’t the nightmares that had Sylar awake and shifting positions every few minutes in his bed. It was the thoughts buzzing through his brain that chased sleep away. For so long he had been conflicted, drunk on the power that his abilities gave him but still wracked with self-loathing. The power was indescribable, addicting, but it didn’t make him feel special. The self-hate had only intensified after meeting Peter, a fellow special as powerful as himself who didn’t have to hurt anyone to harvest abilities, never had to get his hands dirty, always the hero. It had made him hate Peter and want his attention at the same time. Two years into their joint confinement and the hate was waning but the desire to be the focus of that Petrelli passion was stronger than ever.

No matter how much Sylar wanted Peter in his bed, he couldn’t fake the remorse Peter wanted him to display. Like forgiveness, it was a concept Sylar couldn’t grasp. He wanted to, he just didn’t know how, just as he didn’t know how to ask Peter for the absolution only he could grant.

Why did it have to be Peter, he wondered? He’d hurt other people just as much, if not more. Peter wasn’t the only one mourning a loved one lost to Sylar’s telekinetic touch. It felt like destiny, even if he didn’t believe in that concept, for the hero to be the villain’s redemption. It could have been anyone else trapped with him. He wouldn’t be lusting after Bennet, that was for damn sure. The thought made him gag. Claire didn’t do it for him either, pretty as she was. Whiny brats weren’t his thing and he was certain that no amount of lonely years would change his feelings about her.

Who else would he want to have all to himself here? Someone who would share his bed would be a start, maybe a gorgeous supermodel. But sex would only take him so far. No, it was Peter, with his relentless quest to save even monsters, who was fated to be his connection, if only Sylar could decipher the code of forgiveness. Wanting the man whose brother he had killed was depraved. If Sylar could undo it now, he would. He should have told Peter, that time in the diner when Peter had asked what he would do with Hiro’s power, that he would bring back Nathan. It was a missed opportunity. At last sleep came to claim him and he drifted off imagining Peter’s head on the pillow beside him, lustrous dark hair tousled from sleep.

“I have a surprise for you,” Sylar said to Peter as they walked home from the handball court in the chill of a December afternoon. “Meet me back at my place after a shower.”

Thanksgiving had passed unmarked. Peter had been distant and sad for days though neither of them mentioned the date. Sylar had learned that his awkward attempts to soothe his companion were not appreciated. It was the reason he had timed his surprise so that it wouldn’t coincide with any holidays or Peter’s birthday.

“So what’s the surprise?” Peter asked over dinner. “Can I guess?”

“No.” It was a new and much more pleasant way to torture his cell mate in this two-man prison than the incessant fighting that had marked their early days. After dinner, Sylar led Peter to the couch and retrieved his secret possession from the closet.

Peter’s eyebrows went up when he saw what it was. “You got a guitar! When?”

‘I’ve had it for weeks.” Sylar grinned, appreciating the response. “I couldn’t keep borrowing yours to practice without ruining the surprise.”

He sat on the arm of the couch, with his bare feet on the cushion and Peter shifted sideways to accommodate him as he began to play. He had tuned the instrument earlier. Sylar ran through his small repertoire of easy beginner songs. There were only three, the last of them being _Good Riddance_ , the song that Peter had taught him.

With a lopsided grin, Peter teased. “Is that a subliminal message?” 

“Not at all,” Sylar smirked. “But this one is.” Sylar began strumming fast and though it wasn’t anywhere near perfect, he hoped it was passable enough for Peter to recognize. He still needed to watch his fingers while he played, meaning he couldn’t gauge Peter’s reaction, not that he wanted to look at him right now, anyway. Peter’s solemn hazel gaze was always his undoing.

He didn’t sing, not because he was ashamed of his voice. It was decent enough and he could carry a tune, but it was nearly more than he could manage to play this song for Peter. He knew he couldn’t make his mouth utter those words, not even in song, not even if they were words that didn’t belong to him. Already Sylar could feel his face growing warm. He curled his lips into his practiced sneer to cover his embarrassment.

Peter’s face was unreadable when Sylar had finished playing, at least to Sylar who had never seen Peter or anyone else look at him that way. The suspense was killing him.

“Say something, Petrelli.”

“That was a good surprise,” Peter finally said, with a small smile that didn’t show any teeth. But it was all in the eyes, the way they narrowed ever so slightly at the corners when he was happy. Sylar had seen him smile at other people that way. With a quick squeeze of Sylar’s knee, Peter added, “I think we’re getting somewhere.”

There were two meanings to that statement and Sylar decided he didn’t care which one Peter had meant. He liked them both.

***

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
